Therapy pt 1

Dear sonja

As much as I wish I could write all good things, what I’m feeling right now is all of the bad. And to be clear, by bad, I mean absolutely fucking terrible. I oscillate between wishing you were dead (and yes, I know how awful that makes me), and wishing you would take me in as your own and welcome me back with open arms and hugs and ample words of reassurance.

You see I don’t understand any of it. I don’t understand how it happened, I don’t understand how it’s okay for you to have done that, I don’t understand what I did wrong, I don’t understand why you abandoned me and I really don’t understand why you are treating me like I’m some dangerous criminal.

Do you know that I’ve been making a scarf that I started knitting for you? Do you know that I’ve had a design idea for a necklace to make you going around and around in my head for months, that I intended to make and give to you for christmas? I don’t know where this all went wrong. I really don’t know where this all went wrong.

I like to think that you’re nothing to me, that you never were anything to me. That I never needed you and never cared for you. That I couldn’t care less about your dog that used to cuddle me on your sofa, or your cat that I got to know as a kitten. I need to pretend that you are nothing to me. That I don’t care whether you still exist, whether you are still practicing, what your kid is up to, whether you ever think of me.

I don’t understand. I don’t understand how despite knowing my core wounds, all the attachment shit, you could do what you did. I don’t understand how you abandoned me. And worse, I don’t understand how you treated me as though I was a criminal, refusing final sessions, refusing to have any more contact with me.

You made me feel like I was the worst of the worst. Like I should be put down. Like I didn’t deserve to call myself a human. That I used and abused people. That I am just like him.

I am not like him. I am nothing like him. Whether I was too much for you because of your own wounds, or whether I was too much for you because of my stuff, because of being little and upset and needy, I don’t know. But I am not an abuser. I am not like him. And I cannot begin to tell you the damage you have caused by treating me like I’m even worse than the rapist that I came to you because of in the first place.

I want to be dead. I am struggling every single day with the will to stay alive. I just wish that when I went to bed at night, I would never wake up in the morning.

I hate you. I know that is childish and harsh and likely cruel to say, but I hate you. I hate what you have done to me. I hate the pain you have caused me, knowing exactly how it would. I hate how I mean nothing to you. I hate how you can simply erase me from your life, but I can never erase you from mine.

I feel worthless. Even the one person that I pay to be there for me abandons me and treats me like the disgusting whore I have grown up being told that I am.

I have nobody. Nobody at all. Not even somebody that I pay to be by my side.

Why bother living?

Fuck all of it,

Pocketbrit.

Huge (365)

This was a huge task we undertook in trying to do this blog, every single day for 365 days. And safe to say we haven’t completed it, not even close, but we also haven’t failed… Not in my opinion at least.

We thought we could do it because we said that we wouldn’t have to write much at all if we didn’t want to or couldn’t that day… A simple “I can’t do this one today, sorry folks”, or a one liner about the word of the day. No big obligation for a long or interesting post… Just a response. Any response.

I think we overlooked something pretty vital in that… Pocketcanadians and my nature. We don’t tend to do things feebly. We don’t want to give short meaningless responses to words that aren’t meaningless to us. And I’m actually saying this without checking it with her, but I think (maybe, pc?) that the same goes for her.

There’s something about a word coming up and feeling unable to write all of the things that are floating around in your head, and then not wanting to write a rubbish couple-of-sentences response, because then it feels like you’re passing that word by. There are words on here that are so difficult… Family members, grief, attachment, therapy… Not to mention to seemingly innocuous ones for each of us (persistent, for myself springs to mind. I once got very upset with pocketcanadian for using this word to describe me).

I want to finish all of these words. And I want to properly respond to all of the ones that invoke a reaction in me. I don’t want to pass a word by with a sarcastic or silly comment because I couldn’t handle it that day.

And I know that pocketcanadian wants to finish these words too.

So, I don’t know how it will look right now… Whether we’ll manage to reshuffle the words we haven’t done and again have it as a surprise word… Maybe this time as a word a week rather than a word a day. Or maybe we’ll just do it as and when we can and forget about coordinating our responses.

I don’t know what its going to look like, but I know that neither of us are done with these words just yet, even though we’ve been entirely rubbish at them the last several months. It was a huge task, a word a day, and I’m still proud of what we made with this space, that anybody at all followed us and sometimes read along. (thank you all of you who did that). And I’m ready for another year of trying to write things out of my head and into this space…

Raise (324)

Okay I kept thinking of the odd weird phrase…. “I take your five smarties and I raise you five smarties and 1 strawberry lace” (yes this is how you play cards)….”raise the roof”… I don’t even know what other weird sayings.

Then I just looked at this ridiculous word that for some reason one of us chose, and ironically raised my eyebrow. Or at least, I felt like I was raising my eyebrow, my eyebrows don’t like to work independently.

Receptive (323)

Safe to say, I am absolutely not a receptive person. Actually, perhaps that isn’t quite accurate – I’m absolutely not a receptive person when it comes to suggestions regarding myself. I am not receptive to things that could be done to “improve” the way I do things. Every suggestion feels like a slight, like a comment on what is wrong with me. It is taken on board as something to prove all of those voices that tell me I am inherently wrong because of X, Y and Z. And queue the instant shame. This of course isn’t something that I am happy with and want to maintain. I don’t think it would go down too well with future employers if I wrote I am a very receptive person provided the suggestions for improvement are not regarding myself. I suspect this is part of my trauma….the monumental shame, the way that a simple suggestion of something that might make something better/easier turns into a personal slight. A this is why you’re awful, see nobody likes you, nobody wants you here, you’re just wrong down to your core.  A spiral that happens fairly regularly actually, about all sorts of things.

The first thing that I thought of when I saw today’s word was being receptive to help. I’ve had the first therapy session after a 3 week break, and I finally went back and was receptive to the idea of seeking other outside help. Not wholly receptive – it’s totally making me panic tonight, and yet it’s an option. I’ve allowed it to be an option that we are going to look into. But for reference, this option was suggested to me over a month ago, and when it was I got extremely angry about it, rejected it, refused help, and was full of loud mixed feelings. I refused to even think about the possibility of accepting help. No effing way. Somebody internally screaming THIS IS NOT SAFE. THIS IS NOT SAFE. THIS IS NOT SAFE. Yes, that loud, and yes, with that much panic. It was a week or two full of panic.

I’m generally not receptive to anything ‘good’. It is a part of being closed off and holding myself in tight and staying safe. It took me a long time to come around to the idea of therapy or seeing somebody to talk to. A lot of calming parts that wanted to blare a red siren because our safety was being compromised by allowing somebody else into our world. And part of my attachment hurts mean that this crops up frequently. I haven’t actually had normal once a week on the designated day therapy with my therapist for several months. As soon as we get back into the swing of a couple of good sessions something goes wrong inside and I panic and it becomes unsafe. I spiral into this isn’t safe, she doesn’t care, who are you kidding, she wouldn’t care if you were even alive, she thinks you’re an idiot, she thinks you are making a big deal out of nothing, who the hell are you kidding?! And so hey presto, get ready for a session (or the next 4) of being closed off, refusing to talk, getting really angry and refusing to be receptive to care or help. Its not a fun cycle.

Something that is extra making me panic tonight about receiving outside help is that it will be free – on the NHS. And I don’t like that because that makes it feel all the more unsafe. I don’t know exactly why, maybe because it feels like they won’t be as conscious of confidentiality, maybe because they will be more likely to be annoyed and think that I’m there for no reason and that I’m making a big deal out of nothing. ugh.

Travel (315)

I haven’t ever travelled, really. I was born in the UK and have lived here almost all of my life. For a few years when I was very young we moved to a nearby European country. The extent of places I have visited are very narrow: skiing trips to France and Austria, a sailing holiday around the coast of northern spain and france, a couple of family holidays to spain or france.

I’ve never been outside of Europe, and the thought actually just terrifies me a bit. I could never have been one of those teenagers, off to travel and see far places after finishing their A-Levels. I would love to go to far away places, to experience different cultures and see amazing things. And yet I also really wouldn’t like to. I don’t know what it is…I don’t like flying but it isn’t even that. I think its maybe something to do with a total lack of routine, and not knowing what you are doing. I don’t know, and it’s so stupid, but it makes me so anxious the thought of it. And then mad at myself, for not being better than that.

I’m off to Canada really soon, and that’s as structured and safe as it could possibly be. Once I’m there I won’t have to worry about anything, and the getting there is simply one bus and one plane. Both direct. And yet ugh the panic of it. So so stupid. So stupid. Travelling clearly is not for me.

Written 11/08 and backdated

Iron (290)

Okay I just came back here to see what words I’ve not seen whilst I took a bit of a hiatus, and this immediately made me smile. I think mostly thinking about which one of us must’ve put this in our list of words (pocketcanadian, I’m looking at you).

You see, I am british and I iron things so that I don’t look unkempt. My canadian friend across the seas finds this literally painful. In particular when I show her my nice neat stacks of freshly ironed clothes on the kitchen table, (including bed sheets…cue canadian horror). One time I convinced her that I actually ironed my underwear and socks (freshly laundered knickers, why not?), and the horror it invoked…oh you should’ve seen it people.